Kid Amnesiac

Hallmarks of the well planned wardrobe include the following:

• good quality basics such as jackets, pants, and foundation tees
• a few fun shirts or accessories thrown in that coordinate with the basics
• items that are are based around one or two key colors, making mixing and matching easy
• pieces that easily layer for transition from one season to the next

I’ve never managed this for myself despite years of trying. No matter how controlled I try to be, I always end up with orphan pieces that match nothing and too much black everything while never turning up the elusive perfect white shirt or light neutral shoe.

On the other hand, I do believe I’ve pulled off the perfectly coordinated wardrobe for Simon. My sartorially correct baby’s wardrobe features a “sun and surf” theme for spring/summer 2007 that includes interchangeable tees, shorts, rompers, overalls, and adjustable length pants. He has one or two outlying outlying rompers or tops thrown in for fun, which still go with everything else color-wise, and his key palette colors are khaki, brown, mid-blue, and orange. I’ve even got his Fuzzi Bunz pretty well coordinated.

How sick is that? Of course, I am helped by the fact that I dislike much of what is available for baby boys. So in a sense, I have arrived at this coordination via, as the SAT prep books used to say, POE (process of elimination). By eschewing that which is too preppy (who wants babies in structured clothes and docksiders?), that which is too sporty (false advertising based on Matt’s and my abilities) and that which is too stereoptypically tough guy-ish (until he has a pincer grasp, he cannnot use a hammer or saw.), I have ended up with scenes of Roman ruins, golphing gophers (no joke), vintage bicycles, and lots and lots of surfer stuff.

I am also helped by the fact that shopping for myself is, at the moment, much less fun that it used to be. Between nursing restrictions, a few extra pounds (groan), and working from home, I can’t wear what I like and there’s really no one to see me or care anyway. I think this is probably a healthy change for me, but I’ve instructed my mother to PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SAY SOMETHING TO ME the first time I answer the door wearing a t-shirt I picked up at a work conference and sweat pants, as that will surely be a sign of advanced mental distress on my part.

In the meantime, I plan on enjoying many fun clothes changes this summer. And with all of Simon’s urping–to say nothing of all the eating we’re gearing up for–there are sure to be many!

We’ve been duped, plain and simple. For months now, I’ve been told about the wonders of rice cereal. According to folk wisdom, it has the power to solve two of my new-mom challenges: fatigue and messiness.

Tired from nursing twice each night? Try some rice cereal. Baby will sleep through the night.

Tired from constantly mopping up a river of spit-up? Try some rice cereal. Heavier foods stay down better.

Thus, for the last several weeks I’ve carefully watched for signs that Simon was ready to try solids. According to my books, he’d be ready when he sat well with support, when he showed an interest in my food, when he lost his tongue-thrust reflex, and–ideally–when he was as close to six months as I could stand to wait.

And so I waited like a true believer for these signs to appear. I waited in happy anticipation. I waited like Linus did when he sat in his sincere pumpkin patch knowing that this year, this year for sure, the Great Pumpkin would arrive.

Then, lo, this past Sunday the signs were all in order. It was time. Matt mixed up the cereal and put Simon on his knee. Auntie Jen got out the video camera to record the drama. And I commenced to feeding the child.

We started out fabulously. I put the spoon in Simon’s mouth and he took it like a champ! In fact, he attempted to lift the entire bowl and chug the cereal all at once. He leaned forward and eagerly took each spoonful from me and even managed to swallow most of them. Finally, after eating the vast majority of what we prepared, he turned his head away from the approaching spoon as his belly was full.

About an hour and a half later, Simon fell asleep. Matt and I turned in ourselves with visions of long stretches of uninterrupted sleep in our heads. How long woud he go? Four hours? Five hours? Six hours? The suspense was killing us.

But not for long! Because at 11:30, exactly three hours after this exciting first meal, Simon woke up hungry. He did the same at 2:30. And at 6:00. And at 9:00.

Did I mention he spat up like Vesuvius, too?

As far as I am concerned, Matt and I just recorded our own, never-to-be-aired episode of Myth Busters. Because let me tell you, that rice cereal could not come close to satisfying the needs of a nearly six-month old baby during a growth spurt.

And those fabled babies who slept through the night so easily and so quickly after their first taste? Let me assure you, it was the formula that conked them out, not the rice cereal.

We’ll give Simon his rice cereal again tonight, and we’ll even make it thicker this time. But we’ll also be going to sleep when baby does, because we now know that a long night still awaits.

Ma nishtanah halaila hazeh? “How is this night different from all other nights?”

It’s a song and a series of Four Questions that the youngest at the seder table asks as part of the Passover service. When you are a kid, reciting the Ma Nishtana and searching for the afikomen (a piece of matzah) is your designated role, your high-profile cameo in an otherwise adult production.

My family went a long, long time between generations, leaving me as the star of Ma Nishtana for about 24 years. I eagerly took over the song from my older brothers when I was about eight–in 1978. It’s a role I didn’t relinquish until my nephew Nathan was about eight–in 2002. Even the years I didn’t come home for Passover, I somehow always ended up the youngest at the table. I’m sure I could recite Ma Nishtana in my sleep. In fact, I’m sure I have recited Ma Nishtana in my sleep.

My tenure is even greater than my cousin Sheryl’s, who, according to family legend, asked the Four Questions from when she was a child of eight in around 1957 until “she was a grown woman” and my brother Steve took over. But that would have been in around 1971. By my reckoning, I’ve got her beat by a decade!

But I digress. About the same time Nathan took over Ma Nishtana, I took over leading the seder itself. The role came to me because I am the most opinionated about the seder service and also because I have the best Hebrew in the family. I missed a few years when I was living in San Francisco, but for the most part Passovers have born my imprimatur for the better part of 15 years.

Until this year, when an unadvertised fifth question changed my entire seder experience:

Ma nishtana haPesach hazeh? “How is this Passover different from all other Passovers?”

The answer is obvious:

HaPesach hazeh yesh li Shimon. “This year, I have Simon.”

This year I had to cede my master of ceremonies role. Like an injured ball player, I was suited up and sitting on the sidelines, cheering on the rest of my family as they carried on without me. My job was to keep Simon at the table and uncranky as much as possible. He had a good night, and the seder was a success without me.

I also realize that Simon is likely to be his mother’s son in at least two Passover-related ways. First, he seems unimpressed with matzah. I gave him a piece at the seder, and he treated it like a toy: he held it, licked it, and then threw it down. That’s my boy! I don’t consider matzah real food either.

And secondly, he’s going to have a monster tenure at Ma Nishtana himself. This year Olivia took over from Nathan after Nathan’s four-year run. Next year Olivia will likely co-star with her sister Madeline. In about 4 years, young Ben will take over from his sisters. Four years after that–in 2014–it will be Simon’s turn. And after that?

Barring the appearance of a sibling, the show will belong to Simon until he’s a parent or one of his first cousins is. I know how you feel, kiddo!

I just committed myself to sticking with Fuzzi Bunz cloth diapers for the long haul with Simon. In sickness and in health. For richer for poorer. ‘Til potty training or fabric deconstruction do us part.

For the past five and a half months, we’ve used these pocket-style cloth diapers quite happily. Of course, it’s easy to love cloth diapering at this stage. Simon’s not on solid foods yet and he only drinks breastmilk. So I’m not being a deluded mom when I tell you his poop doesn’t stink. It (usually) really doesn’t.

Use and care are a snap, too. The diapers go on like disposables with snaps, and I store them in a big washable bag. Once a day, they get soaked in cold water and then washed in hot. The inserts dry on high heat in about 30 minutes, while the shells can line dry in about an hour. Once they are clean and dry, I stuff the inserts back into the diaper shells and am ready for another full day of diapering. I have to special order the right detergent to use, and I run up and down the stairs quite a bit, but it’s truly no big deal.

Unfortunately, these halcyon days are numbered. Sometime in the next week or so, Simon will start solids and our olfactory holiday will end. Cleaning will also get trickier, and I’m already feeling nostalgic.

Coincidentally, Simon has just outgrown his size small Fuzzi Bunz. This crept up on me. The leg holes still fit on the second tightest adjustment, and the waist still snaps on the tightest setting. I figured I had two months left. But I’ve noticed lately that he’s leaked up on his shirt a few times, and the culprit is a too short rise. Upon close inspection, I discovered that Simon is wearing his diapers the way hip-hop artists or wannabees wear their pants. I don’t personally like the look on anyone, but on Simon there are practical as well as aesthetic implications.

So it’s time to either ditch the cloth diapers or invest in new, larger ones. At $18 a pop, Fuzzi Bunz don’t come cheap. Throw in my prefered diaper insert at $2.50 each and a diaper sprayer for $35 (necessary for the next phase in poopy diapers), and you can drop a lot of cash in very little time–in about 15 minutes to be exact.

No doubt 1 to 2 1/2 years of disposables would cost more. These suckers are good for up to 30 pounds, so I will save money in the long run. But you buy disposables on the instalment plan and can switch brands at any time, whereas I just paid for these all up front–a hefty financial outlay.

So that seals the deal. Having broken the bank, I can’t go back. I have sealed my poopy fate and can only hope that a lifetime of gross-out desensitization at the hands of my older brothers (you wouldn’t believe how many poop and fart jokes they know) will prepare me for the horror that awaits.

Simon’s vocabulary is still limited to things like “brrrrrr” and “uguh” and now “ooh”, but Matt and I have developed a few new words and phrases since he arrived. Some were common during the early months; some have cropped up more recently, but all of these coinages have characterized our baby-related vocabulary.

baby pattern baldness, n.: a hair pattern in which babies lose a patch of hair just below their crown due to constant friction from sleeping on their backs.

Wyatt Urp, n. pr.: Grandpa Whitworth’s nickname for Simon. If you’ve read the blog at all, there’s no need for me to explain.

der Autoswaddler, n.: Swaddle wraps with velcro to hold babies in tight. Formerly thought by me to be for amateurs. Now considered the only effective means of Simon restraint. We stopped using these about two weeks ago when the temperature rose to 80 degrees.

barf, v. tr.: You are no doubt familiar with “barf” as a noun or instransitive verb. We now use it as a transitive verb, as in, “It’s time to barf the baby.” Trust us, he barfs much more than he burps.

sound and fury signifying nothing, n.: With apologies to Shakespeare, what we term a relatively clean diaper after sounds that would suggest the worst.

thunderdome, n.: any playmat that features overhanging toys. Common ones are made by Boppy and Baby Einstein.

Cryin’ Charlie, n:. soundless cry. Mouth opens, face turns red, fists ball up, yet nothing is heard. The Cryin’ Charlie immediately precedes a piercing wail. Stolen from an old Bill Cosby routine.

milk coma, n.: happy, sleepy state Simon falls into immediately after nursing.

minty, n: Mylanta. Simon seemed to enjoy the minty taste of Mylanta from the very first dose. We would say, “Hey Simon, do you need some minty?” It’s now been two months at least since he got any. His minty days are over.

Simon’s Third Law, n: “For every poop action, there is an equal and opposite barf reaction.”  If you go to change Simon’s diaper, odds are he will throw up on you while you are attending to him. Similarly, if you are barfing Simon, odds are he will at some point buck and poop during the activities.

nursing burkha, n: nursing cover-up made by Bebe au Lait.

co-napping, n: tucking your infant into bed with with you in the early morning with the fervent hope that he will doze off and allow you to get another hour of sleep. Quite effective!

frantic ineffective, adj.: One of several nursing styles, the frantic ineffective nurser gets so worked up and excited when he’s hungry that he smiles, looks around, wiggles, squirms, and pretty much does everything at the breast except actually nurse. If I let Simon sleep too long, he’s likely to be a frantic ineffective once I wake him up.

Book of Armaments, n.: What to Expect: The First Year. Nowadays we consult this excellent book every month to see what we should expect in the coming weeks. At the beginning, however, we consulted it multiple times every day, for everything about nursing and bathing to shushing and swaddling. Whatever question we had, the Book of Armaments had the answer for.  (Ripped off from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.  The Book of Armaments has yet to recommend the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch as any part of our childrearing routine.)

When I first contemplated having a boy, I realized the day would come when I’d have to deal with his being girl crazy. I did not, however, expect that day to come quite so soon. And yet, at 24 weeks old tomorrow, Simon clearly appreciates a pretty face.

Put a kind looking boy or man in front of Simon, and he grins and makes eye-contact. Put him on his Papaw’s knee or have an uncle lift him up to play airplane, and he has a ball. He’s wild for his dad. But the minute a woman looks at him–especially if it’s a young, pretty one–he goes wild. He coos. He laughs. He squeals. Nay, he shrieks in joy. He pulls out every cute baby trick in his arsenal to captivate his audience and keep the pretty ladies’ attention directed his way.

We first noticed this with Auntie Jen. Then we watched him flirt shamelessly with the barristas at Heine Brothers and waitresses at Cumberland Brews.  But this weekend Simon put on a girl crazy demonstration to end them all. It started Friday, when a fussy afternoon was relieved only by the presence of his Auntie Jen and the attention of a pretty waitress at dinner. Then Saturday we went sofa shopping (our current one is a deathtrap that defies baby-proofing), and Simon made eyes at every female sales associate that got within a 50 feet of him. And today we hit a cafe in the morning, and Simon went wild for a young pretty thing waiting to get her drink at the counter.

I have no idea how common this is. I know babies in general prefer the higher voices women have.  But do they all also prefer women’s faces? Is Simon just acting like a typical baby, or is he expressing an early preference for pretty faces? I have no idea. What I do know is that if he keeps this up, I’m going to have a middle school Casanova on my hands.